Punishment
by Thalaba
Summary: Sent to his exiled Squib Aunt's home whenever his tyrannical father is displeased, Marcus meets a spunky Muggle girl that sends his world spinning. An AU where one of them does NOT have magic yet still catches the eye of the other.


**Eight Years Old**

Aunt Melania Flint smiled entirely too much. She wore strange clothes and constantly tried to ruffle his hair and kiss him goodnight. There were no house elves in her cottage (which, compared to Flint Manor, was a dilapidated shack) and so Marcus was expected to make his own bed and help with daily meals—in short, act like the indentured servant that his father had accused him of being. Malcolm Flint had mightily scorned young Marcus' interest in broom maintenance and sent him away in disgust to spend his summer in the company of Muggles on an island of no importance off the south coast of England. There would be no flying, no spells. Marcus may as well have been sent to live leashed in a kennel.

He had seen pictures of his Aunt before, Malcolm's older sister who was a disappointment in every sense of the world—(not only was she stupid enough to be born a Squib, Melania had never married thus keeping the Flint family oath-bound to provide for her welfare)—and in his dull frame of reference Marcus found it odd that siblings should look so dissimilar. She had the requisite raven black hair and height, but her eyes were dark as well and upon meeting each other the orbs twinkled in delight and warmth, something that Malcolm's had never done. In any event it wasn't hard to express his father's hatred towards her: Marcus was going to miss out on Terrence Higgs' Solstice celebrations, and as Higgs was the only boy who didn't treat Marcus like he was out to eat him, the young Flint was more than full of rage when Melania asked him to dry the lunch dishes. He was in a high sulk.

Marcus didn't fit in with Melania's flowers and wicker furniture or her clucking chickens in the backyard, and her plates—unlike his family's fine china designed with the Flint coat of arms—didn't match and neither did her petite mugs. His large, mostly uncoordinated hands felt awkward passing such doll accessories into her empty cupboards, and his dark attire contrasted completely with her mauve and yellow colour scheme. Melania drank chamomile tea at all hours so Marcus was not surprised when she put on the kettle an hour later, rubbing his shoulder in an irritatingly affectionate way as she passed where he sat at the table in sullen silence, reading one of her disgusting Muggle books on something called rugby.

"MIMI!"

Marcus startled at the screeching cry, his large knobby legs knocking against the round kitchen table and upsetting the oddly shaped sugar bowl that only ever held sugar cubes and a sprig of lilac. There was a slapping sound of small shoes on the stone pathway that led up to the cottage door which suddenly burst open to emit a tiny blond whirlwind; Melania's long arms were open to receive and the girl in a rainbow shirt and blue jogging pants jumped into with a squeal, allowing his Aunt to spin her around the room, dropping a multitude of kisses upon her bright pink cheeks chapped by the unavoidable ocean breeze that seemed to blow continuously over the island. The girl was smiling and giggling merrily until she finally noticed Marcus when her sounds stopped and she stared agog at him with her big blue eyes, hands draped around his Aunt's shoulders. Marcus scowled. It only emphasized his wide set jaw and protruding teeth. He barely acknowledged the equally blond woman who entered on the girl's heels, out of breath and holding a lacy white shawl in one hand.

"I told her to wait Mel! Lord, the wind just picked up there for a—" She cut herself off abruptly, just noticing Marcus as well. "Oh. Hello there." Melania only smiled and rubbed the girl's back slightly while Marcus stared a black hole into the pine floor.

"Katie," she spoke sweetly, in the way adults speak to the very young but in a way no one had ever spoken to Marcus. "This is Marcus, my nephew. You remember I told you he was coming to visit the summer?" The girl must have nodded because Melania continued with a light tone. "He's going to need someone to show him around, someone smart and brave—"

"Mimi!" the girl giggled once again as Melania tickled her strategically. "You _know_ I'm smart!"

"And brave?"

"Yesss Mimi!"

"That's good, because Marcus pretends to be scary but actually he's very nice."

Eight year old Marcus had heard enough, and as Melania placed Katie back on her feet he roughly dropped the rugby book on the table and pushed back his chair.

"I don't need a babysitter and I don't want to walk around this stupid island!" It was the most he had said at one time in two days but his Aunt merely raised a black eyebrow that reminded Marcus so much of his father that unconsciously his shoulders began to turn in. The other woman said nothing in the silent pause that followed Marcus' outburst but the girl Katie approached him, one hand playing with the end of her ponytail.

"Sometimes I need one in London but not here." Marcus had no time to move back from her grasping hand as it flew out to latch hold of his wrist. "I can show you the big wasps nest behind Miss Kelly's and there's lots of oaks and we can skim rocks down on the beach and. . ." She was trying to pull a very reluctant Marcus out the door.

"Just stay away from the cliffs Katie," the other woman nodded.

"Yes Mummy! And maybe we can play football with Johnny and his mates when we get to town, you're big so they'll let you. . ." Marcus had no idea what she was talking about and had no intention of interacting with any other Muggle children. Too refined to roll his eyes, he simply dug his heels in and stood his ground, letting Katie pull on his arm ineffectually.

"I'm not going anywhere," he grumbled. "I don't want to see any stupid—"

"_Marcus._"

He met Melania's hard look with an inward cringe. She looked from him to Katie and back again, and while her eyes still twinkled it was with a backing of steel that meant that yes indeed Marcus was going out and that if anything happened to this loud obnoxious baby there would be hell to pay and football would be the least of his worries. Lowering his big dark head, Marcus' narrowed green eyes watched the girl's blue striped sneakers as she led them out of the cottage and down the stone path out of Melania's yard.

"And Mister Owen'll give us a sweet if we go in to say hi and Hey! That's a pretty flower! There's 'posed to be an eagle up by the lighthouse. I don't think that's true but we can go see tomorrow. And Miss Francis has _five_ puppies and _two_ lambs and about a _dozen_ kittens and I saw all of them so I know that's true. . ."

888

". . .and then Jack hid and the big ugly giant yelled **Fe Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of an Englishman!**"

Marcus watched he blond girl with barely concealed disgust. No matter what she thought he wasn't stupid. He was big and ugly but he wasn't stupid and he'd heard variations on this ridiculous story before. Of course when Daphne and Miles tell it 'Jack' is already incredibly rich and is hunting down trolls on a mission from Merlin himself. At least Katie's version had some clap trap with magic beans and a poor mother, a little more reason to be stealing gold. It still didn't stop the sting that she was telling this particular story for his benefit, because of his appearance. _Muggles._

She ended the tale with a loud KABOOM as Jack chopped down the fast-growing beanstalk and the giant died a gruesome death and good was rewarded. _Stupid Muggles._ He gripped fistfuls of long grass and pulled, tossing the lush green off to either side and digging his heels into the ground beneath him; they sat underneath a large tree with roots that bulged and curled like petrified snakes. There was too much sunshine beating down on his head and there were annoying birds chirping from somewhere up above. Katie was beaming at him however.

"What?" Marcus grunted, tearing up more grass. _Stupid nature._

"You liked it right?" she made a move, kind of like jumping up and down but with her knees. Why was she so happy? Merlin, she never shut up! "I mean, it had a fight and boys like that—Is that a chipmunk!" Eight year old Marcus rolled his emerald eyes and watched contemptuously as she hopped around the oak, intermittently pointing and squealing. None of the kids he knew acted like that. Marcus brought his knobby legs up to his chest and rested his chin on his knees. He wished he was home with his broom, flying around the grounds. And he'd get a cup of cocoa before bed if Jelly wasn't delivering papers for his father. . .Marcus rubbed his cheek haphazardly and sniffed.

". . .climb the tree?!"

He snapped his head in the blond girl's direction, glaring. "Well?" Katie looked at him expectantly, all big blue eyes and pink cheeks. "You're the tallest boy ever! Can you climb the tree or not?" Marcus didn't know why he felt flattered by her words, said without a sneer or postscript on how he was also the meanest, ugliest, slowest. He gave her a minute to reconsider but even when the pause dragged out he didn't move, instead responding with thick disdain.

"Why would I want to climb a tree?"

Katie frowned, then inexplicably broke into giggles like he'd just made a joke, little fingers going up to her mouth before she bounded back to him, staring down goggle-eyed. As close as she was Marcus could see that her blue pants had grass stains on the knees and there was a hole near the hem of her shirt. A poor Muggle. Merlin, what was Aunt Melania doing associating with people like this? She pointed.

"Can you get up to that high branch? You could pretend to look for the singing harp and the hen and then when I come in—" she raised her arms up in a curve and growled—"you can hide in the leaves and. . ."

Marcus' brow furrowed in confusion and he shook his head, cutting off her incessant chatter the only way he knew how: harshly.

"Just shut it!" He made a slashing gesture with his hand and didn't feel bad when her jaw clamped, bottom lip unsure. Marcus shook his head again and lowered his hand back to the grass. "What are you saying? You. . .you want me to be Jack?" The smile bounced back as if nothing cruel had happened which Marcus didn't understand at all. She should have retaliated, should have come back with a threat of her own, should have walked and left him alone. Katie would be eaten alive in his _much_ superior world.

Unless this was the punch line. Marcus frowned harder and repeated himself.

"You want me to be Jack."

"Yup!" she nodded vigorously. "I'm always the giant, he has the best lines!"

Stumped. Marcus hadn't been expecting that at all.

"How old are you anyway."

"I'll be six next week! Wanna come to my birthday party?!"

888

"Back again Ding-a-Ling?"

Having grown up with laughter directed at him by wealthy patricians creative and uninspired alike, Marcus wasn't at all taken aback by the mousy haired plebeian who stood arrogantly at the head of a group of a dozen mousy haired plebeians, couple gingers. They were on a well-beaten field, two ratty net things on either end; it was just outside 'town' and Marcus knew Miles and Bole would never have stepped foot on such a pitiful field. The Quidditch pitches in Old Harlow were better than this!

Tiny Katie stood with folded arms a step in front of him in an obviously mistaken form of protection. Marcus didn't need her help and didn't understand why she had insisted he come meet these idiot Muggles. It wasn't like he was actually looking for _friends_. He was on this island as punishment and he'd take it like a man: complaining under his breath constantly.

"Can Marcus play forward Johnny? He's fast, he'd make a really good forward."

The laughter was riotous for no good reason. Well. . .Marcus _was_ staring at the blond girl slack jawed, looking all but fast in his state of incomprehension. What the bloody hell was a 'forward'?! The group, led by Johnny holding an odd black and white ball, was moving closer, still snickering. Katie titled her head up to meet the boy's mocking eyes, her chin pushed out stubbornly.

"Fatty doesn't look like he could chase a ball if his life depended on it." Marcus felt his cheeks go red but he rolled his eyes anyway and didn't comment. _That was original._ He wasn't going to talk to these lower life forms. "Go home and play with your dolls Ding-a-Ling, no one wants you here." Apparently Katie wasn't going to be so easily persuaded and she stamped her foot.

"Let me play goal Johnny! Dick's sick anyway and you know it!"

The boys laughed some more and most trailed off to their places on the field in some random order Marcus couldn't decipher. This had been a horrible idea and when he got back to Aunt Melania's he was going to tell her to let him hibernate for the rest of the summer. No more stupid Muggle children and no more little girls dragging him around.

"Let me play Johnny! I'm good!"

Johnny spit at her feet before turning away and Katie made a face, gasping.

"I'm gonna tell your Mum!"

Johnny's response was to drop his ball and kick it right at Katie's head.

She wasn't as good at playing goal as she thought.

The blond girl dropped like a stone, screeching on the ground and holding her face and Marcus moved on Johnny like a tank. There was no thought to it, no consideration or weighing the odds at how quickly the other boys could regroup. With Katie's sobs resounding in his ears Marcus put all his bulk into pushing the skinnier Johnny to the ground, knocking the wind out of the startled boy and his head on the beaten earth. Marcus used his appearance to his advantage, growling at the other boy and pointing one meaty fist.

"You hurt her again and I'll rip your bloody eyes out."

Katie weighed next to nothing as he picked her up, thin arms locking around his neck and jogging pants legs going around his waist automatically while huge tears streamed down her now mottled cheeks. She dug her face into his shoulder and didn't look up until they were safely inside Aunt Melania's cottage where Katie's Mum took over and Marcus was obliged to submit to interrogation.

888

"Why do they call her Ding-a-Ling?" he mumbled later that evening. They were sat down for supper—ham sausages and mash, with milk for him and a mug of wine for Melania, a bowl of fresh rolls between them—and Marcus was keeping a careful eye on his plate. He had found the rugby book in his room after his earlier adventure and it was still there, now under his pillow. Melania lowered her one of a kind mug and shrugged her elegant shoulders softly.

"Katie's last name is Bell. I suppose they think it's funny." Marcus barely acknowledged this answer but didn't protest when she reached over and touched his black hair. "Have boys ever called you names like that?"

"And girls." His shoulders turned in again without his knowing, face still averted but voice mostly inflectionless. "They call me 'Troll'." Melania nodded slowly without much change in her expression. She didn't remove her hand.

"They called me names too you know." After a minute of silence, where Marcus didn't ask for further details and didn't continue the conversation, Aunt Melania sat back and finished her meal. He was confused and conflicted, could still feel little hands and feet digging into his back, and couldn't stop thinking of her words by the oak tree after he had raced up and down it's heavy limbs.

_"Oh that was so fast Marcus! You should play the hero all the time!"_

**Thirteen Years Old**

Marcus watched Katie toss another speckled stone into a brown puddle, one of hundreds that dotted the dirt road between town and his Aunt's cottage. She was grinning he supposed, given the bounce of her knees; her floppy yellow rain hat and oversized matching slicker encompassed her small body, blocking out her features unless she chose to look up, which, despite the downpour, she did with alarming frequency—alarming because of how the drops splashed against her eyelids and rolled down her chin. It must have caused her some discomfort and yet she continued to raise her face and smile.

He stood with the red floral print umbrella he had accepted from Melania under complete duress held vice-like in his calloused grip. Back home there would have been water repelling charms or bloody proper black sunshades or his perfectly tailored multifaceted robes that water just glossed over like a duck's back. Marcus had to make do with a poncy tan pea coat his Aunt had supplied and ancient galoshes that soaked his toes when submerged. It was like she hadn't grown at all in the past five years, all tiny and fragile and pretty bloody helpless; the get-up was icing on the cake of how awkward he felt towering over a little girl. Marcus had shot up another foot though it hadn't helped his face, his large jaw or teeth.

It hadn't helped him secure a spot on the House Quidditch Team.

Marcus had almost committed a cardinal sin and begged his Father not to send him away: how was he going to improve on the broom if he was sent away to a _Muggle_ island? How was he going to improve his Transfiguration chants if he couldn't use a bloody wand? _Damn McGonagall! She's never liked me! Damn Gryffs, all the bloody same!_ It was embarrassing to be sent back here and Marcus had no answers for Higgs or acquaintances when they asked—some snidely—where he was going for three months. If they knew. . .if they knew he was related to a Squib. . .

"I got a new bike for my birthday," Katie spoke loudly over the rain, continuing their way down the path. It was on the tip of Marcus' tongue to ask what a 'bike' was but he had learned his lesson from his last summer on the island. Just nod along to whatever nonsense she spieled and everything would be fine. Mostly. Luckily this time Katie didn't seem to require an answer. "Well my Da gave it to me before I left so it's still back at his place." Marcus furrowed his brow. Conversation with Katie was much easier than with his Slytherin housemates; he had realized she was surprisingly—stupidly—honest in what she said, no real artifice, and thus he needn't guard himself or expressions with the Muggle as he would at home. But now he was confused. Marcus had assumed Katie's father was dead.

"I thought you lived with your Mother?" Katie's laughter was light.

"Only when I come _here_ Marcus! I stay with Da in London." Still plodding along Katie seemed to cut herself off; she stuffed her hands into the deep front pockets, water dribbling off her hat in rivulets. "'Course he's at work most of the time. I see Felicia more than him."

"Who's Felicia?"

Unexpectedly Katie kicked at the ground, sending up a spray that splattered the yellow coat. Marcus had dipped the umbrella down quickly, covering himself from the mud. "Damn it Katie, what'd you do that for?!"

"Don't curse at me Marcus! I'm sorry!" But she stomped her foot again which did splash Melania's coat. _You haven't_ heard _cursing Katie!_ Before he could yell some more the rain disappeared, just like a switch had been turned off, and the billowing grey that had coated the sky all week opened to reveal piercing rays of light that shot down, arrows from above. Katie's hands came up to remove her hat while Marcus shook out his umbrella with a curl of revulsion to his upper lip. He hated the weather here, he hated the claustrophobia that threatened, and he hated that he had no choice at all over the situation.

His feet were surrounded by wet wool. Disgusting.

"I'm sorry Marcus," Katie mumbled, folding her arms, material squeaking. "I'm sorry I got your coat dirty." It wasn't her usual sincerity, though he believed she was contrite; there was an under layer of petulance. He remembered Wood and the miserable ginger Weasley's laughing when Higgs had slipped performing a dive, crashing into Marcus out on the pitch and sending up turf. Hooch had broken up the fight before anything serious could happen and still his first instinct was to lash out. Instead Marcus gave Katie a small shove, which still had her wobbling, and started waking again. When he didn't feel _as_ angry for his current lot in life Marcus broke the companionable silence.

"So who's Felicia?"

Katie sighed.

"Da's girlfriend. . .They're getting married in September and I'll have to stay with Leanne for two weeks while they're in Paris."

"But your mother—"

"I'd miss too much school if I stayed out here with Mum." Katie shrugged then looked up at him and smiled. "Staying with Leanne won't be bad. She has _three_ older sisters an' they're boss and promised they'd take us swimming and Leanne's Mum just had twins so I'll get to help out, and they have a couple cats and. . ."

As Katie persisted on the various worthy virtues of this Leanne friend and the litter that comprised her family, Marcus was almost glad that Katie hadn't answered his question though he remained confused. He hadn't been thinking about her education troubles or issues of transportation. What Marcus didn't understand was how Katie's father would remarry with his wife—well, with Katie's mother still alive? There were marriages of convenience. There were marriages that began with a semblance of affection and then sputtered out. Men had mistresses. Women had affairs and society work. Husbands or wives died.

Marcus' Mother had died.

He shook his head and gratefully followed when Katie—changing the subject of her diatribe—spotted what she believed to be a falcon swooping in the direction of the lighthouse.

888

"You're quiet this evening."

Marcus stared levelly at his Aunt from under dark lashes, not deigning to respond to that remark as he knew perfectly well he was _always_ quiet, morning or evening. Unlike some girls he knew, Marcus didn't need to run his mouth twenty-four-seven. They looked at each other for several moments in silence until he returned to his plate and continued eating. "Did you and Katie have fun today?" He shrugged and grunted an affirmative. Melania inhaled and reached for her wine. "That's good. She missed you."

From the top of his black mop to the fingers curled around his fork to his frozen feet, Marcus' entire body clenched.

". . .What?"

Melania didn't seem to notice his discomfort. She simply nodded and picked at her spinach, plucked fresh from the garden.

"Well she hasn't seen you in five years Marcus. To a little girl that's an eternity! She was upset when you didn't come back. Crying, moped around for weeks that first—"

"She should've forgotten about me then! Just like her parents forgot each other!" The fork hit the plate with a porcelain clatter and Marcus' hands became fists. "She's only a stupid Muggle anyway, and a girl! I forgot she existed the moment I arrived home!" Feeling himself going red in the face, Marcus shoved his plate halfway across the table and ran upstairs. He hadn't known! How was he—No one had told him! Melania hadn't written!

Katie. . .

It was her own fault! Stupid girl! Stupid bloody _Muggle!_ Moping over him? Ridiculous! If she wanted to waste her own time that was well enough but why involve his Aunt?! Her Muggle mother probably complained about it all the time to Melania and she was only bringing it up tonight to show how crazy he'd been to see her as anything other than a pet to be taken care of—Marcus stopped with his hand on the oiled railing, gripping tightly and shaking and suddenly not knowing which way was up or down. They had only known each other a few months. She was barely out of nappies. . .

Marcus' jaw twisted and he blinked rapidly. For no reason.

He heard Melania's sandal steps come up behind him and there was a gentle hand on his head.

"I thought I'd put a basket together for you both. It's supposed to be a lovely day tomorrow."

He sniffed.

"Alright."

"And Marcus. . .Katie's parents didn't forget about each other. They were just happier apart, happier just being friends." Her fingers ran along his shoulder and then fell away. "A friend isn't a weakness Marcus. And no matter what my brother might say, it **is** possible to find one."

". . .Goodnight Aunt Melania."

**Fifteen Years Old**

Marcus had been chopping wood all day.

Melania had volunteered his services for old man Owen down at the shop, supplementing his coal stock with thick chunks of log that Marcus uncharitably hoped would smoke him out of house and home. He had then been sent in Eugenia Kelly's direction, avoiding the wasps that perpetually congregated around the woman's property while he cut and chopped and carried wood from the forest to her dirty, ill-kept shed, (which Marcus would sped most of the summer rebuilding after commenting on t to his Aunt). Miss Kelly had a cap of tight white curls, a hunched back, and insisted on pinching his cheek after he brought in the last armload, sending him home with a basket of dense home baked cloudberry muffins and a blueberry pie of which he was grudgingly appreciative as it would be as sweet as any Honeyduke's candy and he was too old now for Melania to attempt hiding it from him until after dinner.

Of course she had chores for him to complete on his return. Sweat stinging his eyes, rolling down between his shoulder blades and staining his shirt with great wet patches: Marcus groaned at the stretch of muscle as he lifted the shining axe over his head once again but luxuriated in it as well. He was strong, tough, and as Captain of his house Quidditch team everyone at Hogwarts knew it. To lead Slytherin one had to be and Marcus Flint was a definite leader.

Except on this island, where he had no wand, where he had no broom, and to the Muggle adolescents he had no reputation.

Marcus swung the axe with extra effort, grunting as the blade sunk deep, and then hefting the piece back over his shoulder again. It didn't matter what these plebeians thought, these useless beings that couldn't even fly, that couldn't even use words to create something tangible or use the plants that grew so plentifully around them to make potions to harness power and chain death itself. Not that Marcus' grades reflected any such knowledge either—But he'd been busy with more important things! **The Team** was what mattered now! He had Beaters to train and plays to design. Spies to send out after the Gryffs. _"You're a student Marcus but a Flint first! If you can't handle your own responsibilities how can I possibly believe you can control _my_ empire?! You can forget the Apprenticeship. Get out of my sight!"_

Like Marcus wanted to spend three months following Malcolm Flint's lickspittle's around, trying to learn the intricacies of Magical Law & Order as it concerned property and ancient estates, having it further ingrained how predisposed Mudbloods were to weak or illegal testimony as it concerned their children's futures, how incautious and foolish they were when Purebloods kept such intricate, detailed wills and family histories. Fuck, he may as well poison himself! Three months in an office? Three more months of Malcolm looking down his nose at him?

**Thunk thunk thunk!** The chunks fell apart under Marcus' aim, a growl growing on his lips. Bole had been planning a weekly match over on his Grandmother's manor near Ben Nevis however. Ter had extended an invitation to Milan. **Thunk!** Bole? Bollix. The mates would spend half their time flying in circles and the other half trying to skim oak-aged malt whiskey off of the old lady who knew more hexes than all of them combined. Marcus snorted. And it wasn't as if he needed to be exposed to Higgs' new hedonistic tendencies now that the bastard found a girl who could bear being around him on a consistent basis. Of course only Ter would be mental enough to chase after a Gryffindor. _"I don't care if she's part dragon, she's bloody beautiful! And she's smarter than anyone you've ever met, that's for sure. And she's scares the pants off of Montague! What more could I ask for?!"_ Merlin, Snippet had Ter wrapped around her little Gryff finger.

Then again, Terence Higgs had been sickeningly happy this passed term.

**Thunk!**

Jacinta Ryder in Hufflepuff had kissed Marcus behind the Astronomy Tower after the Cup finals, pressed up tight against him with a mouth full of purple gloss and hands that didn't hesitate to grab and touch what she wanted. _"You're a winner Marcus,"_ she had purred, trailing one shiny fingernail around the Slytherin crest on his chest. _"I __**like**__ winners. A lot."_ His first kiss and he really didn't know what to put where and how to do it, but that was alright because Jacinta did. Her hands stayed on his body, his uniform and waist, took and took and took as her slick lips greased up his. For a moment Marcus believed he could feel her sixteen year old breasts through his jersey, that her nipples were hard (which meant she was really excited to be with him) and what he would do if he could ever touch a pair. It had been awkward and exciting and bloody awful in the end when she had pulled away with an odd patronizing smile, walking away with a swing of her hips, promising she'd see him later.

Cedric had been decent enough to fill him in on what had happened once she had returned to the Hufflepuff common room. Where all her friends were waiting. To chat.

And laugh.

But if he wasn't a winner then what was he?

**THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!**

Melania would be home later. She'd gone back to town as some Muggle was pregnant and needed help with the wash. Pathetic really. They were going to have lamb for dinner, she had said before she left, and she wanted to measure him for a sweater. _"You're much broader than you were two years ago."_

**Thunk!**

"Fuck!" Marcus dropped the axe and jerked back. He had hit the chunk with off aim and a piece flew back, knocking him in the shoulder. "FUCK!" His upper arm blossomed in a throbbing wave and flared worse as he instinctively tried to move it. Marcus gnashed his teeth and kicked at the fallen chunk, sending it skidding across the garden. He didn't fucking need an injury! "Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck—"

"Marcus?"

He whipped around expecting to have a bludger batted at his head and instead was knocked senseless by something else. Someone else. He hadn't heard her trainers on the stone pathway.

"Katie?"

She smiled and it was her. And yet it was someone new as well. She had shot up like a weed—no, not a weed, not at all, never—and was all angle's and elbows and cheeks, her hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. No longer did he _tower_ over her or feel like the giant in a former fairy tale. But then again, with Katie he had never played the giant.

"Marcus," she smiled brightly. "Oh Marcus I'm so happy to see you."

With his shoulder aching and the vague thought that he may never throw a quaffle straight again, Marcus allowed a Muggle to touch him.

Marcus let Katie hug him.

And with one arm he hugged her back.

888

"So that's my swim team in Brussels last winter," she laughed lightly, pointing to an unmoving picture of a dozen or so girls in heavy jackets and blue hats posing in front of a gigantic structure of nine spheres and tubes. "The Atomium. Isn't it brilliant? It's blinding when the sun hits." Marcus nodded noncommittally as she turned the page in her album, more laughing teenage girls and happy adults, coaches and chaperones. They were sitting side by side on Melania's low doorstep, their knees high. Katie wore black trousers of a slick, shiny material, buttons down the side of either leg, and a blue t-shirt with an image he didn't recognize. Just like he didn't recognize the architecture she presented or many of the things she talked about. It was pleasant to hear Katie speak though, all excited honesty. There was the scent of ocean spray in her hair from the ferry ride.

"Leanne dragged me to the Comics Museum but I wanted to see the Grand Palace. . ." She went on and on: Laken Castle, Cinquantenaire, Victor Horta, Magritte. He took some small pleasure in knowing she would feel just as stupid if he brought up Salazar Slytherin and Hogsmeades and Azkaban Prison, but it was _very_ small especially with the thought that Katie Bell would ask questions, unlike himself. All Mugles must know these things. "I can barely speak two words of French so she did all the translating. And then—Oh my God—Oh oh this was hilarious!" She was all nervous giggling, and there was an image of a small peeing boy on the newly opened page. It was a fountain he believed, but there was Katie and the brunette paragon of all worthy virtues Leanne pointing over at the sculpture, obviously talking to someone behind the camera. "_Petit Julien_," Katie spoke, rolling her eyes. "It's a symbol of the city, can you believe it?! I'll take St. Paul's or Big Ben any day." There were a few photos of girl's in a swimming pool, of Katie and Leanne in bathing suits and caps, wet. She blushed and quickly passed these by while Marcus swallowed and brought his arms around his knees, critically aware of his sweat-stained shirt and the smell his hard work had created. "We didn't win anything but it was a lot of fun."

She had said she didn't want to bore him—she wasn't—and that if he didn't want to see her pictures they could go do something else or she'd help him with the chopping—Marcus did want to see her images and would have rather told his Father to go jump in the Black Lake than have her assist with his chores. But he wasn't complaining about the break and his arm didn't hurt as much. At least he was getting a chance to see how Katie lived beyond their few summers here on the island. There had been older ones of her father's wedding, of Katie in a puffy pink dress and a beaming red headed Felicia—someone whom Katie thought more of now than she had back then—in a flowing white gown. School pictures and holidays.

And then there was unexpectedly an extreme close up of a younger Katie in an easy headlock, sticking her tongue out and crossing her eyes.

The arm around her throat belonged to Oliver Wood.

"What the bloody hell is that?"

Marcus felt a tightness in his chest that he wanted to work out by chopping up something other than chunks of wood, something that he could also take his fists to, something that would make sounds.

"Hmm?" Katie looked down at the album, a line of confusion between her brows at Marcus' changed demeanour, then smiled and shrugged. "Oh. That's Oliver. He was—You remember when I had to stay with Leanne that time?" As the only time he knew of was after the wedding Marcus could only assume that was it. "Well Oliver was visiting his cousins who lived next door. Someone had died and there was a wake, but anyways we all spent most of the time just hanging out."

"Did you."

She frowned but then her eyes were suddenly sharp.

"You know him, don't you." There was a laughing puff of air. "You guys go to that-that same private school. Don't you? In Scotland. That's how you know him!" She shoved his arm and laughed and Marcus felt his chest decompress. "God, what a coincidence!"

"That's what he told you?"

"Wha—Marcus," Katie looked at him gently for a reason he couldn't discern. "It's ok if you go to a private school. It's not like I think you're some snooty Eton snob with a silver spoon up your bum." Marcus raised his eyebrows and Katie laughed. With her next comment he wished she hadn't. "And Oliver didn't seem that way either; I'm not surprised you know each other." Marcus didn't want to think about that, the ways in which he and bloody Gryff Oliver Wood were similar. The question came out before he could swallow it back. Or bite off his tongue.

"Do you talk to each other?" He twisted his mouth and pushed himself up, not offering Katie a hand. She shut her rainbow dotted album and shrugged once again.

"Ah. . .no. No, Oliver said he'd write but he never—"

"I have to finish with the firewood before Melania gets back," he sucked in a breath through his protruding teeth, knowing he'd never get that picture out of his head and angry at himself for even caring. "Maybe—"

"Marcus--?" Katie stood, frowning again.

"Maybe I'll see you in a couple days. I have a lot of work to do."

Katie stared at him in silence for a few moments but Marcus didn't look at her. She took a step forward. One back.

"Marcus. . .," Katie folded her arms awkwardly around herself. "You're coming to my birthday right. I—I mean. . .you _are_ coming, aren't you?"

888

It was only the second birthday party that Marcus had ever attended in his life. Pureblood's didn't have 'parties' to celebrate the day of their birth; they held galas and formal balls with presents of the highest quality and price piled on top of antique tables smothered in heirloom linen cloths. Depending on which Family was involved there could be a full orchestra or hired Quidditch entertainment in attendance. Katie's party in her mother's home had the crème of island aristocracy situated with tea on the inside and several teenage boys lounging with cake and ice cream on the outside. With the small package wrapped in Sunday funnies Marcus felt like a poor relation, like a bloody _Weasley!_

Annabeth Bell was a little woman—petite was too delicate a word, too cute, and while Katie's mother was small of stature (especially next to his height) Marcus would have never called her delicate—with long blond hair braided around the base of her skull and rough hands that that could transition from harsh drudgery to soft comfort easily. He attempted not to stiffen when she left her hostess duties with the elderly to reach out and embrace him, arms strong, the hug firm. Wrinkled heads and toothless smiles nodded towards him.

"Marcus!" she gushed with a smile that met her pale eyes and then some, "Where have you been hiding yourself?! Katie said you were here but you never came to visit!" She wagged a finger teasingly. "I'm disappointed in you. Did you know she still talks about how you rescued her from that lightening storm?" Marcus didn't. _Stupid birds._

"I've been busy with work. . .and studies I brought with me."

There was some gentle laughter from the older residents behind them and Annabeth joined in, patting Marcus on the back and pushing him in the direction of the stairs.

"Katie's just putting away some laundry, she'll be happy to see you." His presence in her bedroom notwithstanding, (a taboo if there ever was one in his world), Marcus doubted his sudden appearance a week after his cold dismissal would make Katie glad. Her cheerful _"Come in!"_ was like a jinx to the head.

"Happy Birthday Katie."

"Wha—Marcus?!" An armful of colourful t-shirts dropped to the floor. She stood, surprised and blushing, in front of a poorly kept armoire, the wood chipped and in need of painting; despite several folded pairs of those button slacks perched on her small bed, she wore a lavender sundress that showed off legs as white as snow. Marcus kept his eyes on the open window above her bed and held out his crudely covered package. Melania hadn't helped him with the paper and without his wand Marcus had no talent in domestic design. There's was probably more tape than paper. Katie was nibbling the inside of her cheek. She was suspicious. He had done that to her.

". . .What is it?"

Marcus tried not to roll his eyes but he was putting himself out there and it was difficult.

"Just take it."

She took a deep breath and reached out with one hand. Sitting on her bed to open it, Marcus ignored the shifting fabric of her dress and kept his place by the door. There was a vanity off to the side with a mirror complete with darkened age spots. Had Mrs. Bell been born on the island? Had this been her home as a girl? Why did she continue to live here when the mainland was so much _easier_? How did any Muggle live without magic?

He hadn't really thought about it before.

The newsprint crinkled and ripped under Katie's hands and Marcus folded his arms as he heard the box open. She was confused and well she might be: it was summer and there was a scarf in her hands.

"Marcus?"

"It's from my snooty private school. You know? Where I stay the rest of the year with that silver spoon up my arse." Katie slowly grinned and Marcus felt a weight leave his shoulders, a lump disappear from his throat.

"I never said 'arse' Marcus." He snorted.

"But I'd feel like one if I didn't."

Katie bit her lip on a smile and lifted the green and white striped wool up. It was like having his arm wrapped around her, but better. Closer. His House colours caressed her neck and the tassels touched her stomach. And her chest. Marcus coughed.

"I love it Marcus. Thank you. Did you have any cake?" Used to her blunt conversational transitions, Marcus just shook his head. She laughed and stood up. "Let's go before someone feeds the rest to the goats."

888

Marcus could feel Melania's eyes on him. It wasn't obtrusive; she was preparing a beef barley something-or-other soup on the stove, reaching for her array of spices and the vegetables chopped neatly on the side with an elegant hand, but Marcus was reading in the corner and every so often she would watch him, holding back whatever she wanted to say. Marcus curled a lip and sighed disgustedly. If she demanded on being this obvious why couldn't she just say it instead of making him think there was something crawling on his face? He marked the page in his Transfiguration textbook (Merlin he really needed to pull up his marks!) and looked at his Aunt.

"What is it?"

"This may be your last summer here Marcus," she continued to stir the pot, added parsley and a pinch of salt. Marcus' heart surged. _Oh thank you all that is strong and sacred!_ He was out of exile! Without Melania here on the island he couldn't be sent away from home—well 'home' yes, but not his friends! Father had no where else to—He stopped his internal celebrations. Bloody hell, perhaps the bastard had found somewhere worse to send his biggest disappointment. Maybe a camp in Siberia.

"Why?"

"I won't be here next year. I—I need to go to London for a few tests."

"Does Father know?" Aunt Melania nodded somewhat vigorously. She wasn't looking at him now. Marcus' brow furrowed slightly, as if he was faced with a difficult charm and hex combination. "What kind of tests?"

"Oh I'm simply behind on my appointments. Regular check ups." She lifted down two bowls and spooned out their meal. The stew smelled delicious and his stomach rumbled in appreciation. Melania had never starved him, that was true. "It's different. For Squibs."

Nothing else to say about that, Marcus nodded and accepted his meal gratefully.

That night, despite his being fifteen years old and as mean as a poked basilisk, part of Marcus wanted Melania to rest her hand on his head, to tousle his hair like she used to and offer to share a bowl of honey roasted peanuts or read one of her pieces of Muggle poetry.

As he climbed the stairs to bed she wished him good night.

**Eighteen Years Old**

The cottage was cold and silent, no scent of baked goods or sprigs of fresh blooms or boiled tea leaves; the garden was overgrown as well as the stone pathway, there was most likely a leak in the roof. He wanted there to be candles glowing in the windows, a light waiting to call him back to a time that he didn't appreciate back then nearly as much as he did now, back to people who had actually thought well of him. People who had actually cared about him. It was dark on this end of the island despite the blazing sunlight that dotted the forested sections and long waving grasses, the waves crashed forcefully against the cliff side and gulls cawed relentlessly, but possibly he was seeing his own inner conflict reflected in the world around him.

Melania was dead and buried, six feet under after a _very_ private ceremony on the Flint Estates, and only now was Marcus—dismissed by his Father but taking his trust fund with him—free to see to his Aunt's worldly possessions, or at least what was left of them. He had been able to get a letter to Annabeth Bell asking her to take care of the more immediate needs after Melania's body had been brought back to the mainland. Marcus knew she would have hated the ceremony, would have hated the hypocrisy of it in being brought back home when it had never been her home at all and that of the people present Marcus had been the only family to spend a deal of time with her in the last twenty years. Malcolm Flint should have allowed his sister to rest in peace on the land where she had made her life, away from her blood and the people who had turned their backs on her, but no: the old bastard hadn't been able to give up that piece of control and had demanded a Flint be interred on Flint soil. Marcus had a black eye for his pains after voicing his opinions in that particular argument.

He walked up then down the stairs of her small home, regarding the walls and bed frames as objectively as he could before brandishing his wand and. . .placing it on the table. He would package her remaining items by hand and have the property ready for sale in the morning.

888

"Your mother said you would be here."

Katie glanced over her shoulder and nearly dropped the paint roller she had been lugging all around the lighthouse. Annabeth said she had volunteered with he restoration council and it was her day to paint the lighthouse. The sleeves were rolled up on her paint splattered teal t-shirt and her black shorts rode high on her fit thighs. She had filled out and strengthened. He didn't feel like he was looking at a little girl anymore.

"Marcus." Her voice was a mixture of surprise and censure and Marcus couldn't blame her. He hadn't been back in three years. He hadn't written to Katie specifically before or after Melania's death. He'd never been consistent, or friendly, or patient. She placed the roller down on the white tray. "I didn't think you'd come. . .What the hell happened to your eye?!" It was as if the years had slipped away when she moved forward, hand reaching up to touch his face with her big blue eyes searching his green ones. _There_ was the girl who had dragged him into the unknown. _There_ was the girl who had spoken to him like no one ever had. _There_ was the girl who had seen beyond the troll.

Marcus grasped her hand, rubbed her knuckles with his thumb and watched as Katie stumbled to speak, gently letting go when her cheeks blushed pink and her mouth formed a small 'oh.'

"I suppose I need to get a better handle on that silver spoon."

The blush disappeared and the 'oh' became a 'huh' with a grin that knew he was teasing and wasn't planning on humiliating him for it. Once the silence settled he could tell what was coming and was ready for it.

"I'm sorry about Mimi. How long—Did you even know she had cancer?"

Marcus shook his head. He hadn't even known what _cancer_ was.

"No, she ah. . .She didn't tell any of us." Katie turned back towards the lighthouse and he followed, hands in his trouser pockets. The structure was in need of many things, a good paint job being superfluous. The railing at the top was rusted and needed to be completely replaced, as did the cracked glass around the revolving light. However a small population as the island had expected to pay for it, Marcus couldn't guess. He gestured towards the paint, the folded tarp and hardware accessories, everything laid out for several days work.

"How did you get roped into this?"

"I volunteered," she leaned through the doorway and procured a knapsack, took out a bottle of water. "Everyone needs to give back sooner or later." He wouldn't ruin her worldview by disagreeing. "Do you remember the falcon?"

_"I swear Marcus, I'm sure I saw it!"_

"I thought you didn't believe falcons nested here."

Katie shrugged her shoulders as they jogged along, the oversized slicker bunching up around her neck momentarily, rain drops sliding off the yellow material. Mud flicked up from their boots at each step, the rubber coated with dirt as well as his hand-me-down coat; it was pointless to try and shield when everywhere one stepped was akin to a sinkhole. The weather had been terrible for days and they were only now seeing a respite; who knew how long it would last. But first it had been squirrels and now it was falcons and Marcus felt as if he spent most of his time here running after Katie's invisible pets.

"I didn't," she squealed, "but what if it's true?!"

They came upon the lighthouse in a rush, jumping through the growth and bushes like hares through a warren. It was a discoloured mess of whites and oranges, and, as used as he was to old buildings, it didn't look like it would hold Katie's weight let alone his own at the top.

"Is it still operational? She frowned and he rolled his eyes. "Does it still work?"

"Oh. Yeah. Yes." Katie stopped abruptly, panting slightly, and looked up as far as she could. "Mister Owen's family were always keepers—"

"Keepers?"

"Lighthouse keepers. He too old to come back and forth anymore so he's trained Johnny's older brother Francis to do it." Ah. Johnny. That little snot who'd been sent away to school, hopes high for a football scholarship. Marcus hoped he broke his bloody ankle. The sky began to churn once more as they reached the entrance. He opened up his ugly umbrella and almost hissed. This wasn't summer! This was torture!

"I'm going back to the cottage." It was a statement but he didn't turn away. Katie hadn't stopped her investigation and as satisfying as it would be to leave the eleven year old to her own devices Marcus knew Melania would kill him. And he wouldn't be. . .proud if Katie got hurt. She was only a simple Muggle after all, a child. "Let's go Katie!"

"In a minute Marcus!" she called back, unconcerned, dismissing his orders. "I just want to see—" Her words were smothered by the unexpected crack of thunder from above and once again the clouds opened up, a deluge descending in a matter of heartbeats and with it a rush of ocean wind, the two forces whipping themselves into a frenzy. Katie's hat was ripped away in the rush and she immediately ran to the door, pulling frantically on the handle. "It's locked!" He could barely hear her. Marcus tossed away the umbrella like so much trash, not watching as the wind caught it and carried it over the side of the cliff, and got a face full of rainwater for his troubles, almost blinded by the gale. He grabbed Katie's thin arms roughly.

"We have to go now!" he shouted into her face. She shook her head frantically, blond hair slick to her skull.

"But what about the birds?! We need to save them!"

_**"There are no bloody birds!"**__ Marcus had always been bigger, stronger, and he dragged Katie away from the lighthouse kicking and screaming._

Just before a brilliant stream of lightning zapped the upper rail.

"You mean the non-existent falcon that almost got you killed?"

"It would've got you too."

"No," he shook his head slightly, taking the bottle when she offered it. "I would have left you to burn."

Now it was Katie's turn to shake her head. She carefully took the water bottle from his hand, out of his mouth, and didn't step away.

"Never."

"You think—"

"My hero would never leave me in certain peril."

When she kissed him Marcus kissed her back.

888

He stayed an extra week, gave up his place on the ferry back to the mainland, and rented a room at the bed and breakfast that was usually packed full of deep sea fisherman (all four of them) this time of year. He ate at Annabeth and Katie's table twice daily and in between restoring the lighthouse and dismantling/repairing Melania's cottage, they held hands through the forest and down the beaten paths that flowed labyrinthine-like throughout the island and kissed underneath old oaks and to the movement of the tides rolling over the beach.

Marcus didn't speak of his black eye or the fact there was no family to which he could return. He thought. He planned. Katie lived most of her life in London and he could find a place for them there. She had to finish school of course but there was time for him to do everything else. To invest or build or find a career that would take care of them both for the rest of their lives. And there were some hard, possibly unbelievable, truths of which she needed to become aware.

First, however, Marcus needed to remove his hands from Katie's backside.

Merlin, she was gorgeous, soft, tantalizing, with fingers that ran with equal desire as they slid across his jaw and lips as they did along his Adam's apple and shoulders, through his hair and down his back. Marcus soaked up the affection like a drug, like a starving hermit after spending eons of solitude in some deserted kingdom—and for all intents and purposes he was: he had been an empty shell before a stranger had dragged him into the light.

She waffled between laughter and a mew of disappointment when Marcus pulled away, dropping kisses along his chin and down his throat. Marcus laughed too.

"Wait," he caressed her head, trailing down the length of her hair and dangerously close from where he had just retreated. "Wait." They lay on the grass near the lighthouse, noonday sun radiating down. There was a line of white paint down Katie's left arm and he was sure there was some orange on his nose to match the rest that had dried upon his shirt. They were tied up in each other—she in those bloody button trousers that Marcus had to keep reminding himself not to lean down and rip off (as was their apparent purpose in life), he in a pair of ratty denims that Katie had artfully made so, much to his chagrin—or as much of a knot as Marcus would currently allow. "Wait."

"Whaaat?" she drawled. He chuckled.

"Wait. Just. . .just wait."

"For what?" Katie smiled, snuggling closer and resting her head on his arm. She smelled of fresh air and heather.

"You're going to make me say it?" he grumbled half-heartedly. "Going to make me say I can't keep my hands off you?" She poked him in the ribs.

"Did you just try and make a joke?"

"Oh it's no joke." She laughed again and he cherished the sound. "If _you_ don't stop I doubt if _I_ can and I don't—" Here he stopped and averted his gaze, choosing instead to kiss her temple.

"What?"

". . .I don't think our first time should be out here in the woods."

It was like watching an old photograph for him, how the brilliant smile on her glorious face slowly fell away and her blue eyes became shifty, speculating. Marcus pushed a lock of Katie's hair behind her ear. "What is it?" There was no pause.

"I'm not a virgin."

Marcus felt his entire face spasm, shocked, stunned by the words she had just blurted out.

"What?" Katie reached out to him but Marcus was already moving away. The explanation came out in a rush.

"I spent hols with Leanne in France," she sat up after him. "Mum thought we were staying with Leanne's cousin but we—we spent most of our time with these guys we met online—"

"On line for what?!"

"It was only one time Marcus and it wasn't even nice, not at all, it hurt so much—"

Marcus grimaced and locked his jaw, getting quickly to his feet as a pain rose within his gut. Katie followed, hands stretching, grasping, pleading, but he kept pacing. Right now he didn't want her to _touch_ him, he was so afraid of what he would do. "Marcus—Marcus please! Please, listen to me—"

"Listen to **what** Katie?!" he turned on her, emerald eyes blazing full force with his sense of betrayal. "To how you had to travel to another country to fuck a complete stranger?!" Katie's face flushed an immediate red, her fists clenching white-hot at her waist. Marcus could see her eyes well up with angry tears of her own but he didn't care, couldn't care when his own heart was freezing to a block of ice.

"What do you want me to say Marcus?! I haven't seen you in **three years!** You've run hot and cold since the day we met! What was I supposed to do, wait for you?"

**"I waited for you!!"**

He caught the next ferry to the mainland and spent the week attached equally to the bar and his loo at The Leaky Cauldron.

**Twenty Four Years Old**

". . .Can I help you?"

The redhead had opened her front door with a contentedly pleased smiled. It was a beautiful day; she lived in a very nice home in what gave the impression of being like an upscale Muggle neighbourhood; she did not appear anywhere near her forty plus years of age; what was there to be upset over? Of course the smile transformed to one of startled confusion when she got a good look of his face. That was alright though. Marcus knew what he looked like.

"Yes ma'am, I was wondering if Katie was home?"

Her head was shaking before the answer even came out and Marcus cursed internally. Of course she wasn't here. Of course he'd miss her. Annabeth hadn't known for certain if her only child was left for her medical school or not. Katie was going to be a Healer—doctor—surgeon, was going to help millions of people, would be able to buy the island ten times over by the time she was finished. It had been an awful, _painful_ conversation, but one that had been a long time coming and Marcus had accepted her repressed anger and disappointment with an absolute honest appreciation that Katie was doing so well for herself, all by herself. And with immense gratitude when she finally revealed Mr. Bell's home address in London.

And now what was he supposed to do? He couldn't be away from Diagon Alley for too long, not with September around the corner and all the students coming back looking to buy new brooms, let alone the contract his company had acquired with Hogwarts and Durmstrang to supply their flying instructors and classes with new models. Also, he didn't wish for Katie to compare him to a stalker, following her from place to place like some desperate, pathetic, lovesick. . .

But he _was_ desperate.

And now what did he do?

"I'm sorry to have disturbed—"

"She's not back from her morning run yet," the woman placed a hand casually on the door jam, giving Marcus a once over. He wore an expensive three piece suit and green silk tie. It was uncomfortable and obnoxious but he'd picked them up the night before after Apparating back from Annabeth's to his flat. Important Muggles wore things like this, and Marcus wanted to make a good impression. Had to. Needed to. His emerald eyes lifted as hope renewed itself.

"When will she be back?"

Felicia Bell's lips thinned as she regarded him with a questioning perusal and Marcus could have kicked himself. He should have done this before, should have asked to visit Katie's family, asked to be a part of her life—her real life—long ago.

"Who are you? How do you know Katie?" Marcus clasped his hands in front of his waistband.

"We met when I used to visit my Aunt, ma'am. My name is Marcus Flint." Her brown stare widened and Marcus' lip quirked. Of course she knew him. _"Did you know she still talks about how you rescued her from that lightening storm?"_ What else did Katie talk about? He deserved it, whatever it was. "Her mother told me she might be here and I was hoping—"

"Annabeth sent you?"

He swallowed. This could be either good or bad. He knew Katie and Felicia had built some sort of respectable relationship, but what did he know of how divorced wives reacted towards new ones or vice versa.

"Yes ma'am. She did." Felicia nodded slowly, moving a hand over her distended belly in what was surely an unconscious gesture. "She told me congratulations were in order." She hadn't said that exactly, but Marcus figured it couldn't hurt. The most she could do was laugh at him he supposed if it was a ridiculous sentiment. But she didn't. Instead Felicia grinned broadly, both hands dropping to the round curve of her stomach covered by a flowing tangerine dress.

"We've been trying for so long. Terence is our little miracle baby."

Marcus had to bite his tongue to prevent the snort that wanted to come out from changing Mrs. Bell's good mood. So Muggle parents could be just as cruel. Ter would be glad to know.

"Could I leave a message? A number at least where—"

"She likes to take the Undergound over to Green Park and do a few laps about the Mall." She tilted her head and gazed at the sky. "The statues would be lovely this time of day, with the sun shining." Marcus couldn't argue about that. He'd cross his fingers that _Mall_ meant Buckingham Palace--_What else, you bloody moron?_. "If you left now you could probably catch up with Katie there."

"Thank you," Marcus breathed, exhaling, not realizing he'd been holding his breath while Felicia took in the late summer air. "You don't know how—"

"I don't know **you** Marcus," the redhead raised a sudden eyebrow. "But I do know if you hurt Katie her father will kill you." She moved back to close the door. "And I'll waddle over whatever pieces are left."

888

Felicia has been right, the Victoria Memorial was gleaming today, two thousand plus tons of white marble filed with mermaids and mermen and even a hippogriff; it surprised him how the center of British Muggle monarchy was surrounded by Magical symbolism—he had a discussion with an officer (apparently just standing was a curiosity to law enforcement) who claimed it was all based upon a nautical theme, suggestive of the United Kingdom's naval power. What a load of rubbish. Merpeople were more than likely to sink a ship than help one conquer an Armada.

It was Sunday so the Mall was closed to traffic. It was, however, crowded with dog walkers and couples pushing infant carriages, and joggers after joggers after joggers. Marcus cursed. He should have asked what she was wearing at least, was there anything distinguishing to look out for besides her beautiful features and gorgeous hair spun from cloud and star shine and fuck him he was worse than a Fifth Year confronted with their first Yule Ball. He had rested a hip against part of the surround, looking up into what he believed was Neptune's face, when something hit him in the shoulder. A fist it turned out.

"Do you always overdress for a Sunday walk?"

She was far lovelier than he remembered, ponytail and sweaty forehead included.

"I like to make a statement wherever I am. And how did you know I was here?"

She waved a small object in front of his face before popping it back into her zippered pocket.

"Cell phone."

"Ah." If she gave him a chance Marcus would ask what the hell that was later.

Her running slacks and sweater were a soft construction, a seam foam blue. Or green. It could have been a green. There were two white wires hanging out of her collar and down her gently sloped chest that he could recall caressing at one time but now had no right to even glance at. She wasn't panting or out of breath, though given how long he'd been waiting and watching she would have every reason. The curve of her jaw was cupped by the sun. Katie was. . .Katie was simply glorious.

"Felicia said you looked desperate and rich," Katie mused, unsmilingly, "two words I never would have put together with 'Marcus Flint.' So what's the problem?" She lifted her chin. "Why did you come here?"

"I needed to see you before—"

"You finally decided it was alright to be with the world's biggest slut?"

Marcus flinched, he deserved her anger, but as few tourists lowered their cameras and turned to witness the argument he grasped Katie's elbow and growled at them. "Oh shove it!" Katie dragged her feet as he pulled her down the steps and over to the other side of the memorial. "I don't think you're a slut Katie," he hissed. "I never did!"

"You could've fooled me!" she jerked her arm back and he let her, letting go when he only wanted to keep her close. She gave herself a shake, and, even though he was taller, stared Marcus down. Merlin, she was a goddess. And Marcus was shocked to see her jaw tremble. "Just tell me what you want Marcus, I have things to do."

_You._ He wanted to say it. Wanted to scream it actually, lay it all out there and put a ring on her finger and take her away from anyone who would take her away from him. But he had finally realized how selfish that was, how selfish his entire fucking _plan_ had been before speaking with Annabeth on the island. Katie had a life before, during, and would have after him. And he needed to be glad for her. He licked his lips and swallowed back the ache.

"Congratulations on getting in to medical school."

Katie's blue eyes narrowed.

". . .What?"

Shite, had he said that correctly?

"I talked to your mother. She said you were going to be a surgeon." Katie folded her arms lightly over her stomach, looked down at her stained sneakers and then back at him.

"I'm finished with med school Marcus, I've been at St. Andrew's for years. I'm an FHO now." He nodded as if he understood. She was proud of her accomplishments—as well she should be—and he was too. He knew of how hard it was to be a Healer and if there was any similarity--_St. Andrew's?_

"You—You've lived in Scotland."

Katie nodded succinctly, raising her eyebrows as her expression read she couldn't believe it had taken Marcus so long to catch on. "I ran into someone from that poncy private school of yours." Marcus paled and opened his mouth but she continued. "Well, ran into him again."

"Who?"

"The doctors couldn't understand him, he was so adamant that he didn't want to be admitted into a _Muggle_ hospital. They thought it was some sort of racist slur. But then he saw my scarf and suddenly he recognized me. I suppose it was a compliment seeing that he only met me once before. I must not have aged much in eleven years."

"Wood."

She nodded.

Marcus felt his insides go cold. They had never been friendly—bloody hell, they had spent years as Quidditch rivals—but—

"He had some odd things to say Marcus, I was ready to have him committed myself. . .and then he said something that Mum had said years ago. Something that Mimi had told her."

A thousand thoughts suddenly ground to a halt inside Marcus' skull.

"What?"

"He knew who you were. The way he talked it sounded like you had been through a war together—" Marcus sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, ready to spit, and the forearm that had been so close to branding tingled in remembered sympathy of those that had been lost and the mistakes that had been made. "—you had helped him out of a tough spot."

"What did he say Katie."

"Voldemort."

Marcus couldn't help looking over her shoulder, his shoulder, his hand moving towards his wand hidden in the inner breast pocket before falling down to his side. It was foolish. _He_ was dead and gone and there was a ceremony every year to celebrate that fact.

Didn't stop the guttural, knee-jerk reaction though. "Mum mentioned it when I was little and it. . .I always thought he sounded like a cartoon-ish super villain," she chuckled humourlessly then pulled back her shoulders as Marcus' jaw stiffened. "But he wasn't like that. Was he." Marcus didn't answer. "Yeh. Mum said it made Mimi upset and warned me not to bring it up."

"Then why are you now?" He was confused and caught up in a sensory recall that he should not have had to deal with. Not here. Not with her. His whole body was as taut as a bow. Was this her way of calling him mad? He had been prepared to face her anger, her hatred, her complete bloody indifference if that's all she wanted to give him. But Marcus didn't think he could stay silent, _stay civil_, if she decided to mock the War.

She didn't. Her response was angry and sorrowful all at once.

"Why are you **here** Marcus? Everything between us has been a lie—"

"No!" he cut in, shaking his head. "No, I never lied to you!"

"Your school--!"

"It _is_ private!"

"Half-truths then! Hedging your bets because you knew I'd never know the reality of your life!" He stepped forward.

"I wasn't allowed to—"

"You hated people like me!"

"I bloody love you Katie!"

**"Then why did you leave me?!"** Katie punched his shoulder. Hard. And then again. And again; she kept hitting his chest until Marcus grasped her wrists and she tugged away, panting for breath, hands on her hips and red in the face. He looked skyward and took a deep breath as she tried to catch hers. What could he say?

"I was a moron Katie, a bloody idiot. I-I don't know how else to say it." He shrugged forcefully, preferring the thought of bashing his fist into the marble beside them than having to speak his mind to her. "I wish I could say my actions were altruistic but the absolute truth is that I can't change how I was brought up, I can't _change_ what used to motivate me. But believe me," Marcus raised a palm with the desire of touching Katie's cheek but instead clenched a fist and let it fall back, "I've wished so many times our lives could have been different. I wish **I** could have been different."

"Is everythin' a'right 'ere miss?"

_Fuck._ It was another officer. Katie ran a hand over her blond head and sighed.

"Yeh—Yes! Yes, thank you." It was her turn to tug Marcus away. They walked down the red parkway in silence, towards the Canada gate, Marcus fighting hard not to kick two squawking hyperactive poodles.

"We've lived very different lives. . .Haven't we Marcus." He gave her a sideways glance and shook his head.

"Not entirely Katie. I mean I went to school and you went to school. You had friends, I had—Well I'm sure I had less than you—" She snorted. "And then. . ."

"We lived very different lives."

"Yes."

"Yeh."

He scratched behind his ear, rubbed his stubble. She was going off to Merlin knows where and he was going back to his shop and then what? Desperate? No. Pathetic.

"Katie I—" _I don't want you to leave. I don't want you to hate me. There's so much I wish I could take back._

"So you have a lot of things to tell me, right Marcus?"

"I—" His brow furrowed then cursed out loud for no other reason than he knew he was fucking everything up being such a weak bastard. "Yes. Yes I do."

"And it'll be the complete truth. Won't it Marcus."

"Yes Katie."

She nodded and adjusted the hanging wires, pushing the knobby ends into her ears.

"Come over tomorrow at ten. We're having brunch and you'll be able to meet Da's side of the family."

"I—Sure?" Her pink lips curved slightly.

"And—because Da and Felicia will ask—what will I tell them you do for a living?"

". . ." he laughed, one soft huff of hilarity. "I sell brooms Katie."

"Brooms?"

"Brooms. Loads of them."

"I see. Annnnd are you happy doing that?"

"It's more exciting than you realize."

She grinned and slowly nodded.

"I have to finish my run."

"I know Katie." Had he ever felt this light? Merlin, when was the last time he'd been able to _breathe?_ It was more than he could have hoped for and he was not going to screw up this second chance at bliss. "Go jog Katie. I'll see you tomorrow." She nodded and pulled away with a small wave, tripping over her own sneakers. "Shite!" With lightening reflexes Marcus grasped Katie's arm, steadying her as she regained her balance. She looked down at his hand around her wrist and then up into his emerald eyes. She smiled and it sent his heart racing.

"Marcus. My hero."


End file.
